Thomas's Reality
by Days That Never End
Summary: Thomas Anderson is one of the billions of human 'batteries' plugged into the Matrix. The question is- will he remain so. After all, reality is a matter of perspective.
1. Chapter 1

'What will they do to her?' It fell from his lips as a murmur, a redundant unease that curled within an edging dread. Incredulity, that was poured within a basin which tinted with disbelieve, shock and scepticism- swirling within the confine of his gut with uncertainty. There was a stillness that was barely cut by the ever beating rain, quiet but further stirring the potent blend till bile burned his throat. He turned to the other in discomfort; the man he had scarcely understood but undisputed depended upon, like a child on the verge of comprehension but still franticly denying what skittered on the edge of his mind. This stern, shadowed-filled man; unbothered by the triviality of the rain that slicked his hair and drenched within the unyielding black of his blazer and harsh white of his cuffs. Impassive to the definition and inaccessible to the ordinary man. Had emotion ever drawn the lines on his vacant face, or had they been painted like an incomplete canvass that mirrored life. Unfinished, apathetic but irrefutably perfect in shape and mass, in every gesture and tone, to the last polished strand that slicked the rain of his dull brown hair and his sharp slapped shoes-

'What result to all terrorists that threaten the state, Mr. Anderson.' And the cultured, clipped voice that remained detached under the facade of professionalism. His eyes veiled under ominous black shades that were further shadowed by the late evening and the muted clouds, Thomas shivered. The rain had stolen the warmth and wrapped a shawl of wet that clung to his white shirt and skin. He felt cold, and the blank model that stood beside him, did not offer him any human warmth.

'You mean she will be tried.' Thomas clarified, his chin dipped slightly as auburn eyes flickered briefly to the other's, encasing himself tighter within his arms. His fingers, Thomas noted, were they white with tension or was it the cold? Yet in question, his shoulders curved slightly and his hands clamped fatally upon his bicep for the quest for warmth. The silence choked him, in a way that words and lack of breathe could not and he was certain that the man had consequently dismissed his existence, until he turned a 90 degree turn towards him.

'Her trial has been held and the verdict implemented. The government wished to commend your exemplary courage as an upstanding citizen and extends its gratitude hence. Your detention at the station is acquainted and all criminal records of the adversity 'Neo' have been, so to say, wiped clean.' The reiteratating words were telling in its tone, matched by the concise crisp quality that fitted faultless like his tie that strangled the words forth. Thomas nodded but it was shallow, equivalent to the detached reflection upon the man's shades.

'Should another terrorists approach you, the government will expect your satisfactory corporation as you have previously shown.' The daylight dimmed further and to Thomas, it was as if the light was sucked into the void that represented the other's eyes. Had he been any less of a man, he would have ignored the misgiving that eluded him, had he been a child he would have been pacified by the indefinite response, but he wasn't. He had been blackmailed, bribed by a legal system that should have been condemned him. He knew theoretically, he should have served 5 years maximum in a low risk prison camp whist rubbing two piece pence for a cigarette. Should have lost his job, his databases, been blacklisted and tailed for however long they alleged necessary if not for the rest of his life. Yet at this instant-Thomas had to acknowledge, he had sold another's life for the flimsy excuse of his liberty. A liberty that was only in name but not in essence, abruptly he felt repulsed by the man. His cold, mechanic approach to the circumstances, hadn't even blinked when her desperate eyes met his in animalistic fury and passion yet pierced Thomas from his certainty and illusion. And he wondered, had he followed the right person that night- the representative of the government, cut in his black suit or the woman who had breathed warmth in his ear for a few heart stopping seconds, under the flashing lights of the club. Trinity that had promised the answer of an incoherent and unvoiced question- What was the matrix? Something of his doubt must have reflected in his eye, or perhaps his actions, for Mr. Smith tightened his tie in a deliberate and precise motion, and stepped inflexibly forward which caused Thomas to step instinctively back.

'Of course' he muttered, his eyes wary, for what else could he say. He had made his choice that night, whether it was the right one was a matter of perspective. He only hoped, he still had a job.


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas worked for a respectable company 'Metacortex Ltd' that is to say to was ordinary, legal and was as such indescribably tedious. His work desk was a cubicle, which was boxed alongside the dozen others, into a methodical, dry fusion with artificial wooden walls that reached mid-chest. Thomas would often hear the irritant rustle of paper or a soft clearing of the throat against continuous 'tap tap tap' of the keyboard. The straight lines that formed the corridors and separated the congested cubicles, stood in sharp release. And in this room that boxed the numerous, yet anonymous people there was two sets of photocopiers, a water flask and no windows. It would be accurate to state that Thomas hated his job. He hated his job. He hated the facelessness of the 'regime', the blank look as neighbour 'left' handed him the files. The exact 30 steps from the door to his cubicle and the clip of his shoes as he followed it an exact 90 degrees turn left. The brief but hollowed words exchanged whilst on coffee break, before 15 minutes found the artificial corridors once again vacant. He hated that fake plant, shoved underfoot the fire extinguisher. He hated the work; the never ending files, inputting data, surveys, records, calculations that always followed logic and order and the monotonous drone that surrounded him. He hated it, but it was secure. It was safe, or at least he was told it so but perhaps it was the result of a self seeking desire-it was what others had aspired for. That was why he was somewhat concerned; his last day in the office had seen him in police cuffs, escorted rigidly away whilst the rumours of 'suicide' and 'criminal fraud' had circulated within earshot. In fact, Thomas wondered why he had even bothered to come; his boss had made it irrefutable clear that if he had one more 'issue', one more 'concern', than he was fired. Not only fired, but fired without a resume with 24 hours to clear his so called 'desk'. Not that Thomas actually cared, there was always the black market but it would mean him dabbling with more shady characters than he than he cared for, just to maintain his phone bill. Not to mention the 'tab' that the authorities keep on him.

So it was excusable, with him being 15 minutes late, that he was silently stealing across the artificial network towards his 'desk'; him crouching to tie his shoe lace every time someone crossed his path. The last thing he wanted was for someone to notice him in this impartial undistinguished environment only to report him. It was what made it even more disjolting and considerably upsetting to find someone else in his cubicle, sitting at his desk on his computer.

Thomas stood there between the gap that opened to his work office, sheltered at the end of corridor, and stared. The man sat decisively straight, with his legs that actually tucked under the desk and was fitted in a blunt black blazer and slacks. His equally black hair swallowed the neon light framed his white collar that peaked around his neck and hands, as it typed swiftly across the keyboard-and Thomas, for the life of him, felt as if he was replaced by an undated version of himself. Only this one was younger, smarter, and obviously more efficient, judging by the speed he worked through his files. Files. Yesterday's files that he hadn't done. His files, damn it, he hadn't even been given a notice of leave. Thomas loosened his tie in agitation and ran his fingers through his hair, a crease in his brow-

'Excuse me?' it wasn't the aggravated tone he had expected but one of genuine curiosity, as if part of him hadn't drawn the line that connected this man to his domestic bills. He had meant to say 'Who are you?' or 'What are you doing on my desk' or even the 'I'll see you in court' line. He had intended to step into his turf ,stand directly behind this intruder- resolutely but civilly escort him out. But all that resulted from his 'intent' was him hovering hesitantly at the doorway, his arms crossed as his nails bit fiercely into his flesh. What he hadn't expected was the man to unfold abruptly from the desk and turn to face him with that set, blank mask. The straightening of his blazer as he swept the absent creases, it was same eerie echo that he could not put to memory and those dubious black shades.

'Mr Anderson. You are late' his hands were tucked neatly in behind him 'We have been expecting you' a hand laid firmly on his shoulder. There was another that stood behind the first and looked absurdly alike, both with a grim line upon their lip- impersonal to a default. Thomas could hear the hushed whispers of neighbour across the corridor. 'It would appear that you are no longer required in the firm. I believe these are your personal equipment-' a piteously small box was thrust upon him 'I bid you good day' the dark haired man spun back and sat at his desk, upon his seat; as Thomas was led 'resolutely but civilly' through the recurring, echoing corridors.

* * *

><p>It was moments after, while he stood in the elevators with an ominous security officer by his elbow, that his brain posed the classic question. Had he just lost his job? The elevator bell rung open and a concrete hand gripped his forearm, promptly marching them past the reception area and into the sky. Of course not, Thomas reasoned. That would be a breach of his contract, he was entitled to at least-at least- was it a week? Surely a week's notice before strict dismissal. That was a statutory law, implemented in every employer contract, and he hadn't even been informed. Why hadn't Nexton informed him? Thomas frowned, why did that sound so- artificial? No, perturbed? The white noise of New York filtered through him. Why hadn't he been informed? Nexton would hardly neglect basic company procedure; the man had certainly not him very much either...so. Neo looked blankly at the black car in front of him. Thinking back, Neo realised he hadn't actually seen Nexton in his brief entrance and exclusion from the office. He had ,quite bluntly, manhandled with a box full of stationary -that could not constitute a dismissal. It was-<p>

Thomas's head was abruptly shoved under the roof of a car; a startled grunt as the man behind him effectively collapsed the back of his knee, forcing his body in an awkward fall with no way of preventing the impact. Admittedly, Thomas first reaction was to panic, the visual and mental dislocation of the disruption from one's thought had momentarily stunned him. As panic does. It was the second reaction that stunned him; the unexpected spike of feral struggle and terror that flooded his veins in seconds, an overwhelming rush through his system. And with it came a red blaze compulsion in his mind 'run', the second was thankfully less primitive and situated to the current situation 'fight' through no less difficult. The box was cumbersome, restricting his arms as the bodily weight of the other forced him into the car. Thomas's foot snagged and he weightlessly stumbled in an illogicality slow descent, as he watched his possessions scatter into the air. The next few seconds were rapid and Thomas found his hand snapping to grab the uniformed tie, using his momentum to fling himself forward. A hand twisted his arm. Head collided with solid- his sight distorted. Thomas instinctively ducked, mind still reeling at the impact as he tried to locate his aggressor-damn was there two of them or four? Stumble, retreat briefly, the reverberating sound of harsh breathing, mind still trying to rationalise, to reason. Thomas collapsed on a knee, hands tugging his hair as strangled cry gritted his teeth. A vicious pain paralyzed his mind, 'stop thinking' -a dull command in a engulf of pain. Wait-Hands jerking his arms behind as another forced his head brutally to the concrete pavement. 'Stop thinking' but the pain was crippling in that it cut all signal from his brain, his muscles was tense yet like puppet-strings, cut. Thomas struggled to focus, to formulate his surrounding outside from the maddening awareness of his own body, his resounding heartbeat, his itching skin. A blow to his head and Thomas gratefully watched his conscious disintegrate.

* * *

><p>Too brief?<p> 


End file.
